Some aged man that in his dotage scolds,
Not knowing why he hungers; some cold corse
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it.
Look round, and answer what thy life can be
To tell
upon the balance of such scales.

I paid a visit first to Ukenheim,

The man who whilome saved our father's life,
When certain Clementists and ribald folk

Assail'd him at Malines. He came last night,
And said he knew not if we owed him aught,
But if we did, a peck of oatmeal now

Would pay the debt, and save more lives than one.
I went. It seem'd a wealthy man's abode;
The costly drapery and good house-gear
Had, in an ordinary time, betokened

That with the occupant the world went well.
By a low couch, curtain'd with cloth of frieze,
Sat Ukenheim, a famine-stricken man,
With either bony fist upon his knees,

And his long back upright. His eyes were fix'd
And mov'd not, though some gentle words I spake :
Until a little urchin of a child

That call'd him father, crept to where he sat

And pluck'd him by the sleeve, and with its small
And skinny finger pointed: then he rose,

And with a low obeisance, and a smile

That look'd like watery moonlight on his face,
So weak and pale a smile, he bade me welcome.

I told him that a lading of wheat-flour

Was on its way, whereat, to my surprise,

His countenance fell, and he had almost wept.

'ARTEVELDE.

Poor soul! and wherefore?

'CLARA.

age,

That I soon perceived. He pluck'd aside the curtain of the couch, And there two children's bodies lay composed. They seem'd like twins of some ten years of And they had died so nearly both together He scarce could say which first and being dead, He put them, for some fanciful affection, Each with its arm about each other's neck, VOL. XII.-N.S.

GG

So that a fairer sight I had not seen

Than those two children, with their little faces
So thin and wan, so calm, and sad, and sweet.
I look'd upon them long, and for awhile
I wish'd myself their sister, and to lie

With them in death as they did with each other;
I thought that there was nothing in the world
I could have lov'd so much; and then I wept ;
And when he saw I wept, his own tears fell,
And he was sorely shaken and convulsed,
Through weakness of his frame and his great grief.

ARTEVElde.

'It was a thousand pities he deferred
So long to ask our aid.

" CLARA.

'It was indeed.

'But whatsoe'er had been his former pride,
He seem'd a humble and heart-broken man.
He thank'd me much for what I said was sent ;
But I knew well his thanks were for my tears.
He look'd again upon the children's couch,
And said, low down, they wanted nothing now.
So, to turn off his
eyes,

I drew the small survivor of the three

Before him, and he snatched it up, and soon
Seemed quite forgetful and absorbed. With that
I stole away.

6 ARTEVELde.

There is a man by fate

Fitted for any enterprize of danger.
Alas! of many such I have the choice.
Well; next thou passedst to the hospital?

6 CLARA.

With Father John; but here he comes himself,

No doubt to bring you tidings of the sick.' pp. 185-188.

In the Second Part, Artevelde is 'Regent of Flanders': and the change which has passed upon him is indicated in the following detached passages.

· FATHER JOHN.

6 ARTEVElde.

'Say they so?

Well, if it be so, it is late to mend ;

For self-amendment is a work of time,
And business will not wait. Such as I am,
For better or for worse the world must take me,
For I must hasten on. Perhaps the state
And royal splendour I affect, is deemed

A proof of pride,-yet they that these contemn
Know little of the springs that move mankind.
'Tis but a juvenile philosophy

That casts such things aside,

Which, be they in themselves or vile or precious,
Are means to govern. Or I'm deemed morose,
Severe, impatient of what hinders me?

Yet think what manner of men are these I rule;
What patience might have made of them, reflect.
If I be stern or fierce, 'tis from strong need
And strange provocatives. If (which I own not)
I have drunk deeper of ambition's cup,
Be it remembered that the cup of love
Was wrested from my hand. Enough of this.
Ambition has its uses in the scheme

Of Providence, whose instrument I am

To work some changes in the world, or die.
This hasty coming of the French disturbs me,

And I could wish you gone.' Vol. II. pp. 40-42.

*

" ELENA.

'On your way hither, then, you passed through Ghent, The city which you saved. How sweet a pleasure, Revisiting a place which owes to you

All that it hath of glory or of ease!

ARTEVELde.

Verily yes, it should have overjoyed me.

How diverse, how contrarious is man!

I know not wherefore, but I scarce was pleased

To see that town, now wallowing in wealth,
Which last I saw, and saw with hearty courage,
Pinched like a beggar wintering at death's door.
Now, both the mart was full, and church; road, bridge,
River, and street, were populous and busy,
And money bags were tossed from hand to hand
Of men more thriftless than a miser's heir.
I liked it not; my task, it seemed, was done;
The arrow sped, the bow unbent, the cord
Soundless and slack. I came away ill pleased.

'Not in the siege: but I have suffered something.
There is a gate in Ghent-I passed beside it—
A threshold there, worn of my frequent feet,
Which I shall cross no more.

But wherefore thus

Divert me from the topics I pursue?

Think once again upon the proffered choice
Of French protection. Though my army wear
This hour an aspect of security,

A battle must be fought ere many days.

"ELENA.

You have been very kind to me, my lord,
And in the bounty of your noble nature,
Despite those ineradicable stains

That streak my life, have used me with respect.
I will not quit your camp,-unless you wish it.

ARTEVELDE.

'Am I in life's embellishments so rich,
In pleasures so redundant, as to wish

The chiefest one away? No, fairest friend;
Mine eyes have travelled this horizon round,
Ending where they began; and they have roved
The boundless empyrean up and down,
And 'mid the undistinguished tumbling host
Of the black clouds, have lighted on a soft

And solitary spot of azure sky,

Whereon they love to dwell. The clouds close in,
And soon may shut it from my searching sight;
But let me still behold it whilst I may.

'ELENA.

You are so busy all day long, I feared
A woman's company and trifling talk
Would only importune you.

'ARTEVELDE.

Think not so.

The sweets of converse and society

Are sweetest when they 're snatched; the often-comer, The boon companion of a thousand feasts,

Whose eye has grown familiar with the fair,

Whose tutored tongue, by practice perfect made,

Is tamely talkative, he never knows

That truest, rarest light of social joy,

Which gleams upon the man of many cares.

· ELENA.

It is not every one could push aside
A country's weight so lightly.

ARTEVELDE.

'By your leave,
There are but few that on so grave a theme
Continuously could ponder unrelieved.
The heart of man, walk it which way it will,
Sequestered or frequented, smooth or rough,
Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks,
Or 'mid the clang of trumpets and the march
Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt,
Its hour of truce, its instant of repose,
Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek
The food of its affections-still must slake
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure,
And pleasant to behold.'

Vol. II. pp. 75-79.

Father John's embassy to England proves unsuccessful. Richard temporizes. The shrewd and trusty envoy tells the Regent, that the English nobles, though willing to make use of him, if victory should crown his arms, to encumber France, secretly misliked his cause.

year

'Jack Straw, Wat Tyler, Lister, Walker, Ball,
That against servage raised the late revolt,
Were deemed the spawn of your success: last
Has taught the nobles that their foes at home
Are worthier notice than the French. In truth
They should not be displeased at any ill
That might befall you.

I

wage my war-no nation for my friend,

Yet in each nation having hosts of friends!

The bondsmen of the world, that to their lords
Are bound with chains of iron, unto me
Are knit by their affections. Be it so.
From kings and nobles will I seek no more
Aid, friendship, nor alliance. With the poor
I make my treaty, and the heart of man
Sets the broad seal of its allegiance there,
And ratifies the compact. Vassals, serfs,
Ye that are bent with unrequited toil,

Ye that have whitened in the dungeon's darkness

Through years that knew not change of night and day—

Tatterdemalions, lodgers in the hedge,

Lean beggars with raw backs and rumbling maws,
Whose poverty was whipped for starving you,-
I hail you my auxiliars and allies,